Chapter121 – Atticus… You came…
Clarissa blinked up at him, her vision slightly blurred. “Dorian?” she murmured uncertainly.
Her voice, always velvety and elegant, now carried a drunken softness that wrapped around his name like silk. It stirred something in him.
Dorian’s breath caught. Her hair was tousled from the wind, her lips were parted, and her face flushed with that warm, wine-kissed glow.
She looked devastatingly beautiful. His throat tightened. His anger faltered, overtaken by a surge of desire.
He stepped forward and gently took her hand. His voice softened. “Come on, Clarissa. Let me take you home.”
She blinked again. Was she hallucinating? Since when did Dorian talk like that?
Her stomach turned. She yanked her hand away. “Dorian… Don’t you find yourself disgusting?”
“Why are you still chasing after me like some ghost?” she snapped, staggering a little but planting her heels firmly in the ground. “You act like every woman in the world is supposed to orbit around you.”
“You’ve got a wife at home, and now you want to keep a mistres on the side? I’m not Lyra, you manipulative prick. I don’t have Stockholm syndrome, and I’m not interested in a man-whore like you. Get lost!”
The words—years of rage and bile—finally came spilling out, unchecked.
Dorian’s face turned to stone. “You hate me?” His voice was low, cold. “Telling me to get out?”
But she was drunk. And stunning. His hand lashed out again, this time to grab her wrist.
Clarissa recoiled as if he’d touched her with fire. “Don’t touch me, Dorian! I said someone’s coming to get me!”
“Oh yeah?” His tone sharpened. “Where is he?” He knew exactly how she looked right now—flushed, vulnerable, fuckable. There was no way in hell he was letting her walk off with just any man.
He lunged, gripping her arm, trying to force her toward his car.
Clarissa twisted in fury, heels scraping the pavement. “Have you lost your goddamn mind? I’m Clarissa, not your plaything!”
She clawed at his arm—her nails raking his skin—and slapped at his chest.
And then—
A blur of black rushed in.
The crack of knuckles against cheekbone echoed sharply in the night.
Dorian staggered, stumbling backward as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
Atticus. Eyes cold, jaw clenched, fury radiating off him in waves. He looked like he wanted to tear Dorian apart with his bare hands.
Clarissa swayed where she stood, until Atticus slipped his arm around her waist, steadying her. She melted into him without hesitation.
Dorian pushed himself off the ground, face tight with rage. “Who the hell are you? Let her go!”
Atticus didn’t even flinch. “Who I am?” he asked, lips curling into a slow, dangerous smirk.
Dorian frowned, confused by the man’s presence—and his terrifying calm. He was younger, probably no more than twenty, but his aura was lethal.
Clarissa, who moments ago had been resisting fiercely, now curled into Atticus’s side. She looked up with glassy eyes and a soft smile. “Atticus… You came…”
Atticus held her tighter, glancing down at her with worry. “Clarissa. Did this bastard touch you?”
She pouted, upset. “Mm-hmm. He did. He bullied me.”
Dorian’s fists clenched at his sides.
Atticus’s smile turned vicious. “Want me to beat the shit out of him for you?”
Clarissa blinked, then slowly grabbed his collar, looking up at him like a sleepy kitten. “I want to…”
Atticus leaned in, lips near her ear. “Yeah?”
“…But I want to go home more,” she whispered, her voice thick with sleepiness and trust. “Can we go home? Please?”
Atticus’s entire body softened. The murderous fire in his eyes flickered, then dimmed.
Atticus’s throat bobbed as he looked down at her flushed, seductive face. He didn’t even think—he simply scooped her up into his arms.
“Alright, baby,” he said, voice low and thick. “Let’s go home.”
But just as he turned, Clarissa nestled safely against his chest, a voice rang out—sharp and demanding.
“Stop!” Dorian stepped forward, eyes blazing.
Atticus met his glare head-on. His expression was ice-cold, his voice laced with dangerous calm. “Dorian, I don’t want trouble tonight—but don’t mistake that. If I weren’t holding her right now, I’d have already broken both your arms.”
Dorian laughed. “Break my arms? Who the hell do you think you are?”
No one spoke to Dorian Harrington like that—not in Westhaven.
Atticus’s lips curved in a slow, menacing smile. “Who I am doesn’t matter. What matters is that if you so much as breathe wrong in our direction again, I can’t guarantee the Harrington family will make it to tomorrow morning intact.”
“You shit. You dare threaten me?” Dorian snapped, face twisted with rage. “You’ve got some nerve—”
But his words died as his gaze fell back on Clarissa, curled trustingly in Atticus’s arms.
His chest burned. This woman used to tell him she’d love him forever. That she was his.
Now she was surrounded by men—William, Lawrence, and this arrogant kid he’d never even heard of. How many had she been with?
The fury surged uncontrollably. Dorian lunged. “Give her to me, you brat. Or I swear—”
But Atticus moved with lightning speed, shifting Clarissa out of reach.
His gaze turned lethal. He stepped back, gently leaned Clarissa against a nearby marble pillar, and slipped off his coat, wrapping it around her bare shoulders. She blinked up at him, dazed and flushed, her lips slightly parted.
“Atticus?” she mumbled.
He leaned in and brushed a kiss across her forehead. “Let me take care of this bastard first. Then we’ll go home.”
And with that, he turned—and all the softness vanished from his face.
Dorian charged. He’d trained in martial arts, had years of confidence in his strength. The kid didn’t stand a chance.
But within seconds, he was on the ground—sprawled under Atticus, gasping as a vicious fist drove into his gut.
The sharp smack of knuckles hitting bone echoed. Atticus pinned him effortlessly, twisted his arm, and wrenched it until a pop filled the air.
“Ah—fuck!” Dorian screamed, his voice cracking in agony.
Clarissa jolted. She forced herself upright, stumbling over with trembling legs.
“Atticus, stop!” she cried.
His fist froze midair. He turned slowly to her, the bloodlust in his eyes dimming. Then he exhaled slowly and stood, flexing his fingers.
Just remembering that he is Clarissa's ex-fiancé, Atticus took the opportunity to vent all the unhappiness and frustration accumulated in these days on Dorian.
Clarissa stumbled forward—and in the next second, Atticus swept her into his arms.
Her lips were slightly pale. “He…”
“It’s fine,” Atticus said, his voice low and steady. “His housekeeper will be here soon.”
“But…”
“He won’t die. I held back.”
“But still—”
“He can’t lay a finger on me, Clarissa. I promise.”
“I… um…”
She tried to protest, but her words never made it past her lips. Atticus had already pressed her gently against the front of the car and captured her mouth in a fierce, breath-stealing kiss.
Her eyes widened in surprise. She reached up instinctively to push him away, but her hands had no strength—her body melting under the heat of his lips. The kiss deepened, until she was breathless, dizzy, and barely standing. If he hadn’t been holding her, she would’ve slid right down the side of the car.
Finally, Atticus pulled away, his thumb brushed tenderly over her lips, now swollen from his kiss.
“Sister,” he murmured, voice low and husky, his breath warm against her cheek. “Didn’t I tell you… if you let another man touch you again, I wouldn't be responsible for what I might do?”
Her cheeks burned, and her voice, though protesting, was soft and petulant. “You’re the one who messed up… You made an appointment with me..."